


Through his Eyes II

by Evaldrynn



Series: Fǫruneyti [3]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Minor Violence, berry fight, chapter 5 and 6 of Fǫruneyti from Loki's point of view
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-06-08 06:09:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15237096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evaldrynn/pseuds/Evaldrynn
Summary: Fǫruneyti commissionChapter 5 and 6 of Fǫruneyti from Loki's point of viewThis is canon in the story!





	Through his Eyes II

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zeldadragondraco](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeldadragondraco/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Fǫruneyti](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10937811) by [Evaldrynn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evaldrynn/pseuds/Evaldrynn). 



> Thank you so much for commissioning me! ;u;

Though his eyes were trained on his book the moment you came down the stairs his focus turned to you, and a smirk tugged on his lips when you surprised his brother by addressing him with his true title. His fault, of course. It made him slip a chuckle. He was pleased to hear you had decided to join them and travel along; it would give him plenty of time to dissect every little secret you might have to hide and to have some fun in the meantime. Picking people apart was what he was good at after all.  
The fact that Thor claimed you could call them by their names alone irritated him beyond measure but there was no use in objecting now - if you dared to address him like that, however, he wouldn't refrain from correcting you. You had been able to withstand his intimidation so far but he hadn't yet shown you the worst he could do. 

The conversation continued and he wanted to roll his eyes at how they all seemed to hang on every word you spoke, like the plan you had thought up was some kind of masterpiece. Yes, it was smart, he couldn't deny it; but it wasn't anything he wouldn't have been able to come up with himself.  
He watched with visible disinterest how everyone jumped into action and tried to bring his attention back the pages again, ignoring the looks in their eyes as they moved past him and left through the door. 

A few minutes passed.  
His frown grew a little deeper. 

A couple of minutes more – until finally he lay the book down with a sigh. It seemed he couldn't set his mind to reading. Perhaps he needed to keep himself busy in a different way, yet how? This horrid excuse of a village had little to offer, the tiny 'library' – he couldn't even truly call it that – had little to offer, and training his magic was out of the question when he needed his energy to restore.  
His eyes fell on a leftover bag and a mocking huff escaped his lungs. No, he wasn't going to help them. He might be bored but they didn't deserve the satisfaction of seeing him get his hands dirty, and he didn't particularly enjoy being glared at – not to mention that despite the dull location he was perfectly fine stalling for time a bit here. 

Although...

He moved his gaze to the window, searching the tree line in the distance. He wasn't particularly fond of having to fight his way out of situations that could be prevented, especially not if he was already wounded; and if they waited too long their plan might fail. The consequences weren't worth it. 

So he picked up the bag anyway and left.

 

The climb was rather unpleasant, since having a wound across one's chest does not exactly benefit one's physical strength nor stamina, but to him it was merely an inconvenience as he kept his distance from the other men and scaled the steep slope where the berries could be found. When he laid eyes on the target he remembered what the girl had said, however, and felt like groaning. The idea of staining his fingers repelled him.  
With careful handling of the berries he managed to keep clean during the three hours of tedious work and though his injury began to itch beneath the linen of deplorable quality he managed to find peace in the relative silence. The birdsong, the gentle breeze, the distant conversations and laughter while the sun filtered through the canopy... it may not be his mother's garden, but he dared admit he enjoyed it nonetheless. 

Until he heard footsteps and the calling of his name, his jaw clenching in an instant. 

“You shouldn't be doing this-” 

“And why not?” He barely let you finish speaking and shot you a toxic glare, hoping it would scare you off and send you back down the mountain. But alas. 

“You know why.” A weary sigh. “Are you sure you feel fine enough?”

Venom dripped from his every syllable as he spat out the words. “I am not weak.” 

“Being weak and being foolish are two completely different things.” 

Did she just call him a _fool_? He may be a lot, but he was certainly not a fool. His blood began to boil and he stepped forward, pinned you against a tree by planting his hand above your shoulder, and curled the other one around your fragile little neck. He could snap it in a second if he wanted.

“Do you want to lose your life, village girl?”

“Wouldn't that be disadvantageous for both of us?”

He couldn't deny that you surprised him by sounding so calm, but when he felt your quick pulse he knew you were only keeping up appearances. Or were you? As he searched your eyes he found confidence there, perhaps even courage, and far less fear than they should have held. Did you not fear death? The feeling of your fingers wrapping around his wrist – gently, softly – turned most his anger to disbelief, and the touch of your magic to his was what took away the remaining bit. Why did it soothe him? Why did it make his chest clench and ache when he saw that look in your eyes? When you opened your mouth to speak again it was as if he both dreaded and hungered for whatever words would come out of your mouth – yet you surprised him once again.

“I trust you not to hurt me.”

To say his thoughts had been thrown off balance was an understatement. Trust? In him? While he had your throat caught in the palm of his hand? Were you fearless or merely insane? He scanned your eyes to try and figure out which one it was and you didn't avert yours for a second. His chest tightened again, and the burning intensified a little. 

“Trust will only get you hurt.” 

He let go and stepped away, his anger gone but replaced with something far more complicated, and all he could do was keep it hidden while he returned to the berry-laden bushes. He barely registered how you observed him for a moment and only when you spoke up again did he return his focus to the world outside his mind.

“So you're letting me get away with calling you foolish, then?” 

The grin on your face lightened some of the tension that hung in the air. Could you really forgive him that easily?

“Definitely not.” 

To try and lighten up the atmosphere a bit himself he chucked one of the berries at your face and watched it bounce off, a half-formed chuckle stuck in his chest and not allowed to leave. He couldn't, shouldn't; not after threatening to take your life. 

Yet when he turned back to resume the task a black orb struck his temple, and before he could stop it the corners of his lips twitched upwards for a moment. 

You were unbelievable. Confusing, mind-boggling, and truly, utterly, unbelievable. Had you forgotten his status so quickly or had you simply decided you didn't care about it? Well, that deserved punishment. He picked a cluster of berries all at once and threw them back, delighted at how they shook you from your daze and stained your cheeks; and when your grin grew even wider and your eyes began to sparkle any tension that had been left simply washed away. 

The moment you dove for another handful he did the same, evading your attack and parrying with his own as you took cover behind a tree; and he waited with a grin for you lean out and attack - at which moment he fired and struck your face yet again with another cluster of orbs. A strange kind of joy filled him as he realised you wouldn't fall for the same trick twice and were no doubt planning your next move, so it was up to him to predict your strategy and come up with one of his own. Oh, there was no chance you would win this war.  
All reason besides that what was needed for his strategy was out of the window and he cast the fact aside that he would need to save his magic for dangerous situations – because how could he say no to having a bit of fun after all that had happened?

He predicted you would do a fax-maneuvre and threw the berries anyway, hitting your arm instead of your face, and the triumphant laugh that came from behind the tree made it impossible not to smile – especially when you jumped out to fire only to notice he was no longer in his previous spot. How difficult it was to keep in his laugh when he saw the confusion in his eyes, saw you scanning your surroundings almost desperately. He took the opportunity without a second thought: he teleported behind you and leaned in, whispering into your ear hoping to get a wonderfully frightened response out of you. 

“You cannot win from me.” 

The shiver that visibly ran down your spine made him fight to keep in a snicker while he magicked away again just in time. He kept himself hidden, made you think he was not there though he most certainly was, and he enjoyed the look on your face far too greatly to stop anytime soon – but then you closed your eyes and he felt your magic move through the air. What were you doing? Where you-

He couldn't help but let out a sound as he got struck by another berry barrage, your laughter filling the air. 

Had you found him by looking for the faint signature of his magic? He had underestimated you. Before you could strike again he teleported right in front of you and gently caught your wrist, letting the illusion slip from his body and giving her a large smirk. 

“You're quite the clever girl, aren't you?” 

But your eyes darkened a bit, grin widening. “I win.”

And before he could figure out what you meant you smeared the berries down his cheek. 

He could no longer hold in his laughter and smeared his own handful over your face as well. It only made you laugh more. 

Trying to get the goo off your face you stained the back of your hand as well. “I guess it's a tie then.” 

“Oh I definitely won.” He let go of your wrist and stepped back, ignoring the regret he felt at the loss of contact. 

“Let's get back to work, foolish prince.” 

And he answered your playful smirk with one of his own, letting it morph to a gentle smile as the both of you returned to the task of collecting the berries, not throwing them.  
He felt warmer. Softer.  
Less alone. 

 

The walk back down was quiet but the silence was pleasant, not pressing or cold, and it was almost strange to realise that silences like that could still exist between people. He usually preferred enjoying the silence by himself but this... He didn't mind it. And though the smiles had faded to more comfortable faces the amusement and joy hadn't left yet - it was as if it still hung between them, invisible yet there, a palpable atmosphere – and it stayed even when Thor crossed their paths, asking about what in the world had happened to them. A bit of laughter threatened to bubble up again at your explanation and at how you tried to hide your smile behind that stained hand of yours, yet luckily you changed the subject and offered to show him a place where he could wash up. 

When he got there, however, he wanted to pull up his nose in offense. A horse trough? Could she not fill up a normal bath for him? Or perhaps he could just wash himself in the lake? He watched as you gave the pump a few swings and knelt down to start washing your face, and mischief made a grin appear on his face again. While you were distracted and possibly expecting him to join you he reached for the pump and gave it one good swing, sending a blast of water down over your head. 

“I'm not going to kneel on the dirty ground only to wash my face with water from a trough.” 

You looked at him while water dripped from your brow, nose, and chin, and the sight was amusing enough on it's own; but the words which you threw back at him only made his smirk grow. 

“Oh, so you decided to ruin my hair instead then?” 

He watched as you brushed wet strands of hair from your face and stood to wring it out, the response to that question too easily found. 

“There wasn't much to ruin.” 

“And now you're just blatantly insulting me.” 

Usually people would glare at him for a remark like that, tell him that he was a arsehole or call him any other degrading name – if they dared to, of course, since he was still a prince who could make their lives miserable if he so desired – but from your chuckle he could tell you didn't even mind the insult. 

“I had it coming, hadn't I? All right, wait here.” 

He watched you leave with slightly squinted eyes, curious but suspicious as to what you were going to do, and he didn't have to wait very long to be able to figure it out. You came back with a rag, filled a bucket, and returned to stand in front of him. 

“Okay, now stand still or I might just poke your eye.” 

His heart made a slightly weird, almost uncomfortable contraction-like movement when you brought the wet rag to his cheek and began rubbing it gently. So very gently. And it wasn't out of fear, since you could easily have let him do it all himself so you could have taken your distance, and it wasn't out of groveling because of his title and riches since your previous actions were enough proof to the certainty you were not like that. Was it professionalism, since you were used to taking care of people? Or was it kindness? He studied your face, your eyes, in search for an answer. 

“You could have given me a mirror and I could have done it myself, village girl.” 

When your hand fell still, keeping the rag against his cheek, and realisation crept into your eyes, his smirk returned. 

“Or are you just eager to serve?” 

“As a healer only.” 

Ah, so professionalism then. He was a bit taken aback by the rag you threw over his head – the fact that anyone would even consider doing something like that to him was unthinkable, especially with such casualness and nonchalance – but before he had even fully processed it enough to say something of it you had already left to get a mirror. The thing you returned with was barely worthy of being called that, however, and the grin you gave him told him you knew that perfectly well. 

“Good luck with that.” 

You simply ignored the irritated look in his eyes and moved back to the trough to continue washing your face, and as he studied you he wondered what would have happened if he had kept his mouth shut.


End file.
